Saturday, December 16, 2017

Santa and I are in the midst of 'Santa and Mrs.' season.So I've decided to re-share Santa's reports from past years. Just because these experiences are soooo precious!

Santa's Report Card 2014

Santa’s life is not an easy one. Oh, there is plenty of the joy and happiness and ho-ho-ho laughter, all those things that Santa stands for in the world. But in today’s enlightened, social-media-friendly world where information can be passed seemingly faster than the speed of light, Santa faces several conundrums that are not easily dealt with.

Case in point: Santa’s 3-year old granddaughter, Linnea, whom we most affectionately call Linnie, she of the firm mind and undaunted spirit. Linnie, along with her 12 cousins of the Santa and Mrs. Santa lineage, had observed in our Claus career last year that Grandma and Grandpa would occasionally put on the red velvet suits and go out and about as the happy couple. The questions were inevitable, so Grandma Claus and I decided to be proactive and tell them all the truth before the questions started – that Grandma and Grandpa were only some of Santa’s ‘helpers’, because the real Santa needed lots of helpers to visit all the little boys and girls in the world. The plan worked well – last year.

So this year, little Linnie was present when Santa emerged from his ‘dressing room’ – and Linnie’s face lit up like the star on top of the Christmas tree.

“Grandpa, you’re Santa Claus, aren’t you.” No question – more of a declaration.

I started in with my pre-arranged explanation. “Well, Linnie, Grandpa is not Santa, I’m only one of his . . . “

Linnie interrupted, fists on hips and with a stern look on her face which said that she wasn’t putting up with any more of Grandpa’s stories. “NO, Grandpa!” She said, with a look that would put any man to cringing in his fur-topped boots. “You ARE Santa!”

And she stormed away, having put both Grandpa and Santa Claus in their rightful place.

I guess I’ll just have to live with it.

Santa survived that encounter with a sure-minded 3-year old to enjoy something in the neighbourhood of about seven hundred children on his knee this Christmas season. I am pleased to report that my knees survived, along with the rest of me. (It was only due to the TLC that Mrs. Santa brings along on every visit).

I have spent my life studying people, and the Santa believers are the most interesting people I have ever encountered. About 75% of the under 2 crowd will NOT go anywhere near Santa, suffering from what social scientists call ‘coulrophobia’: fear of clowns. I understand this affliction perfectly. Whenever I look in the mirror, I wonder that anyone would want to come near. We always reassure the parents of the coulrophobic little ones that “s/he’ll feel better about Santa next year.”

At the other end of the spectrum are the late pre-teen crowd, who have discovered the truth about Santa and who are reluctant to sit on my knee and participate in what they feel is an elaborate deception, somehow meant to make them seem silly. Many of them will still come, reluctantly, and I try to reassure them that they are not silly, rather that they are only helping to bring some happiness into a world that desperately needs more of it.

The middle grouping, from about age 3-10, are the smiling, happy crowd for whom Santa exists fully and benevolently. And this is my report card for 2014: the world of my future will be in good hands, because today there are THOUSANDS of young ones who have a smile that will not stop. From 5-year old Arrabella whose smile was so infectious I still smile to myself, filled with the love of happy child, when I think of it; to 10-year old Jake, afflicted with Down’s, whose smile told me that even with his challenges in life he was as happy a young man as he could be.

This smile phenomenon tells Santa much, without a word being spoken. It tells me that today’s parents are in fact bringing their children up in happiness, teaching them, raising them with love and a hope for a better future. It tells me that in a world that appears on all fronts to be going to pot, that there are still plenty of smiles out there amongst what I can only conclude to be the quiet – and happy – majority. Yes, of course there is much to be done, much sadness to banish – but there are plenty of smiles out there with which to fight the good fight.

It tells me there is hope for the future. And that any time now, when my daughter puts me in a seniors’ rest home as she often threatens to do when I tell groaner jokes or silly stories, that there will be plenty of smiling people around to look after me, when I need it the most.

I’m glad to have had every one of those 700-odd smiles this year. I hereby dub 2014 the Year of the Smile!

Friday, December 15, 2017

“Turn up the stereo, Hun! Let’s bake up a storm! Then we
can go get our tree and really fill this place with good smells. Mmmmm . . . Baking and
pine!”

“Okay, Sis.” Obediently, I hit the button on the remote
and strains of ‘Christmas in Killarney’ in the Crosby’s magical voice drifted
through the room.

Now you have to know that, normally, this song can totally
get my holiday gears running. Within seconds I’ve been known to be dancing
along to the tune and kicking up my heels.

So to speak.

But, let’s face it. This year was . . . different.

Oh, the season had arrived, right on time. As always.

And all through the neighbourhood, lights and assorted
decorations had appeared, magically bedecking otherwise unremarkable homes and
making them . . . magical.

Nope. The difference this year was me.

And my sister, Norma.

Or rather, the absence of my sister, Norma.

For any of you who have been following our story, you know
that, in typical I’m-Norma-and-I-suffer-from-a-complete-lack-of-forethought fashion,
my elder sister had gone to the ‘other side’. For a visit.

And by the other side, I mean the OTHER side.

Oh, I have no doubt that she is still living. She just isn’t
doing it in the same room—or on the same plane—as I am. You who know Norma also
know that last isn’t unusual. The ‘same plane’ thing. But now the plane she is
on isn’t visible to the naked eye.

Or any other eye for that matter.

Moving on . . .

I hear from her often. A little too often in fact.

In the living room when I’m attempting to meet the needs
of Reggie, her certifiably mad macaw. (In my defense, he has never really taken
a like to me. The feeling’s mutual.)

In the kitchen when I’m trying, once again, to make
something edible out of one of her recipes. (Again, I will cite justifiable confusion
here. Her writing is illegible and her instructions . . . well, the word ‘nutty’
comes to mind.)

In the bathroom when I’m . . . powdering my nose.

On the stairway when I’m vacuuming. (Now that’s a story!)

In fact, she seems to pop up (in a manner of speaking) at
the most inconvenient times.

Finding her atop a ladder, a new addition to the ‘I’ve-quite-lost-my-mind’
contingent.

Toting suitcases.

I sat down as this last thought struck me. She was toting
a suitcase the last time I saw her. I turned to look through the front room
into the hallway. Right there. She had been pulling it . . . and talking . . .

I sighed and got back to my feet. Better to keep on
moving. I picked up the recipe I had set out before my sister’s voice told me
to turn on the stereo. ‘Swedish Meatballs’. A family favourite since there was a family.

“Norma,” I said, pointing at one of the ingredients. “Is
this a pinch of pepper? Or a pound?”

“Have you never made anything?!” my sister’s exasperated
voice came from somewhere near the corner of the ceiling above the stove.

I shrugged. “You know I don’t cook. I explore the freezer.”
I set the recipe down and turned toward the door. “I tell you what. I’ll go
over to Costco. They have it all. And I won’t have to do anything more than
open and reheat!”

“Pah!”

I sat down again and folded my arms. “Well I don’t know
what else to do!” I shouted at the corner.

“I’m over here.”

I swiveled my head. Sure enough, the voice now emanated from
the small patch of peeling paint in that corner of the room. “Stop doing that!
I’m getting whiplash!”

Norma laughed. “You can’t get whiplash from turning your
head from side to side. If that was so, tennis audiences would be in a lot of
trouble.”

I rolled my eyes and reached once more for the recipe. “I’m
just so . . . lost, Sis.” A tear blotched the ink on the card, effectively erasing
the oven temperature and baking times. “I . . . miss you.”

A hand gripped my shoulder and I spun around.

Use Your Words is a challenge issued by Karen of Baking in a Tornado.

Each of her followers submit a series of words which are then re-distributed among the group.

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Santa and I are in the midst of 'Santa and Mrs.' season.So I've decided to re-share Santa's reports from past years. Just because these experiences are soooo precious!

Santa's Report Card 2013

A guest post by my Husby.Or 'Santa' as he is so affectionately known . . .

Being married to a writer like my Beloved Diane is a fascinating, fun experience. We never are bored: there is always a plethora of pedantic words to explore; a new phrase (noun) to, well, phrase (verb); a new bit of Grammar to enforce (especially on Grampar); or a new pun to at which to giggle, like the groaner just inflicted upon you.One of the fun bits of language-exploration in which we engage every so often is exploring Collective Nouns – those words that describe a group of something or other, usually animals.A Pride of lions. A Pod of whales. A Flock of sheep. And a Flock of birds. A Herd of cattle.One of the most interesting collective nouns is a Murder of Crows. Now who is it that gets to decide these things, hmmm? I’m not objecting to calling a bunch of crows a “murder” (because that’s usually what I want to do to them when they sit in the tree outside my bedroom window at four in the morning on what is potentially a beautiful summer day and awaken me to the cacophonous symphony of collective cawing, but in this instance “murder” becomes a very active verb rather than a collective noun) – but why not a Caw of Crows?Over the years we have invented a few collective nouns of our own. They haven’t made it into the Oxford English Dictionary yet, but we’re working on it. Examples:A group of two or more five-year-old boys is known as a Chaos of Boys.A group of more than one teenager of either gender should definitely be known as an Idiot of Teens.A group of mature women becomes, justifiably, a Flash of Ladies.Any two men trying to fix something mechanical about which they know nothing is called a Mistake of Men. (When they can’t fix it, they turn into a Grump of Men).A bunch of bearded old white-haired guys that should, once again justifiably, be called a Santa of Grandpas.And so it is, unilaterally claiming the privilege of creating collective nouns, that I offer you my final report card of the special experiences of one Santa and Mrs. Santa for the year 2013.My Beloved Mrs. Santa and I had the privilege this Christmas season of visiting some thirteen different Christmas functions. Each of the thirteen was a special experience – you read about some of the more tender ones here.Since that time, one stuck out in our minds as being especially fun and moving.We had been invited to a day-care facility containing about 120 children – what we would have called, collectively, a Crown of Children. Early in the proceedings Santa placed, in turn, each of five five-year-old girls on his knee and had his special visit with them. Two were named Jenna, then a Katie, a Courtney, and a McKenna, and they were all in the same class and obviously close friends. Santa inquired of each if she was a Princess, and they all acknowledged that status without hesitation. Here was Santa, in the midst of a Slipper of Princesses. (He wasn’t complaining, then or now). The Princesses didn’t want to leave, not any of the Slipper of them, and the teachers were trying very hard to get individual pictures with each of the other children with Santa and Mrs. Santa, without being picture-bombed by one of the Princesses. They kept coming back, as often as they could get away with it – and each return brought more hugs and snuggles and words of love and appreciation.And questions about reindeer.As is Santa’s wont, he likes to joke and gently tease the kids, and the Princesses became so familiar with it that this became the game every time the Slipper returned – growing and growing with each return. Each smile and laugh seemed to make them want to stay, more and longer, square in the picture frame, despite the entreaties of the Exasperation of Teachers. And the laughing and the joking and the jolly good time and the countless hugs, the loving and the smiling with the Slipper of Princesses, touched our hearts, deeply.What a wonderful Christmas gift!But when does a Slipper of Princesses grow too big to fit the glass slipper?When they become a Giggle of Girls.Merry Christmas, everyone. May you all enjoy the Giggles of joy and happiness and the Chaos of the season. See you again next year.

This is the BIG ONE!And I need your help . . .Daughter of Ishmael is up for the big award: Book of the year!I need your vote!It's simple and REALLY effective.Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!http://whitneyawards.com/nominate/

This is the BIG ONE!And I need your help . . .Daughter of Ishmael is up for the big award: Book of the year!I need your vote!It's simple and REALLY effective.Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!http://whitneyawards.com/nominate/

But whenever I come from a darkened hallway into a lighted kitchen, I feel that same anticipation.

That same joy I first felt over fifty years ago - and that time and life experiences cannot fade.

Stepping from darkness into light.

The light that is family.

This is the BIG ONE!And I need your help . . .Daughter of Ishmael is up for the big award: Book of the year!I need your vote!It's simple and REALLY effective.Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!http://whitneyawards.com/nominate/

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .